From The City That Always Sweeps

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Art Kumbalek with Alien

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, here we be, praise the lord or whomever, in the holiday-less month of August named after some kind of Roman emperor a good couple thousand years ago, one of those guys that when you see a photo of his statue, looks like the dude is wearing a skirt, I kid you not.

Perhaps the pantaloon had not been discovered back in the BCs, but had it been and Augie yet chose the ancient-trans look, I say you go “they,” you rule an empire, what the fock.

Yeah yeah August, a month chock-packed with 31 days of dwindling yet likely sweltering summertime days with annoying insects a’plenty. And as I’ve often bemoaned, a month bereft of not nary one kind of ballyhooed holiday whenst the working-man or woman gets an extra officialized day off from their crappy job or jobs so’s to enjoy a couple, three grilled hotdogs with an ice-cold bottled beer outdoors somewheres.

We abso-focking-lutely need an August holiday for all to celebrate. Hey, how ’bout Elvis Aaron Presley Day who died on an August 16, and he’s already been on a U.S. postage stamp? Call it National Hound Dog Day, what the fock.

Speaking of dogs, we got what they call the Dog Days this month—or diēs caniculārēs as they would say in the ancient land of fair Latinstan before it sank to the bottom of the sea, so I’ve heard. Yes sir, it’s those days this time of year “marked by dull lack of progress,” as was my schoolboy study of Latin so marked, back at Our Lady In Pain Because You Kids Are Going Straight To hell But Not Soon Enough, you betcha.

And speaking of our canine friends/freeloaders, I’ve discovered that there’s an updated calculation to what constitutes a “dog year” compared to the lordly human trip around the sun. Cripes, I’d always heard that a dog year was like seven for the Homo sapien pooch parent. Now, those-in-the-know speculate that “each human year would be approximately five years for a dog.” Jeez louise.

I can only imagine that equation would also apply to a “dog day,” in that the master’s day of 24 hours-times-seven would equate to a nifty 400-hour day for Fido. And with that amount of time on their paws, you’d think and hope and pray that “man’s best friend” could dream up something more constructive to do rather than yap at the rubber Garfield chew-toy that rolled under the living-room couch, take a leak on a fire hydrant or lap up their barf after chowing down half-a-load from the focking cat’s litter box.

And then there’s the specter of alien life infiltrating our earthly blue-green planet. Here’s a news headline I noticed the other day:

Alien-like message sent to Earth in a test to prepare for the real thing

Yes sir, good to be prepared, aye, captain. The first paragraph to the story was this:

What would happen if aliens contacted us? It’s a longstanding question that now has at least a partial answer, after a transmission designed to mimic correspondence from an extraterrestrial civilization made its way to Earth from Mars.

Whoa, Nellie. Is this not too late, given all the recent hoopla surrounding sightings and visitations of UFOs, UAPs, HMOs, ELOs, Ei Ei Ei Os?

About this, I got to tell you’s that I remember a TV show on Discovery where the eminent rocket-scientist Stephen Hawking—a brainiac bon vivant whose résumé includes every goddamn thing with the exception of a guest spot on “Dancing With the Stars”—declared that intelligent life from other cosmos could be, well, dangerous, what the fock.

He said visitors to our fair planet from outer space could be “nomads, looking to conquer and colonize.” Conquer and colonize? Yikes! And I agree—not just “conquer and colonize,” but how ’bout these technologically advanced aliens might hail from a resource-depleted corner of a solar system and so they’re out looking for new nutrient food sources.

Could we, the sapien de la Homo race of human beings, become the chickens who be sliced, diced, chopped, seasoned and fried to be served on a fast-food sandwich to 12-foot aliens who sport bald, large-cranium brains the size of elite university-library globes of the planet Earth?

You betcha, we can. And all I can say is it’s time to be no longer simply Native Americans, Native Mexicans, Africans, Euro-focking-peans, Muslimites, native blah-blah and blah-blah. Time to be Native Earthlings ’cause those alien extraterrestrials from the planet You Are Focked Up the Ass, Earthling Losers may be due any day now the way this year 2026 has proceeded, and the first thing they want to do is reach up and tear our livers right clean out of our buttskis, besides screw our Earthling women and who’s-not three-ways sideways ’til Sunday. Our own history as a planet ought to provide proof to that notion, ain’a?

What a world, what a universe. And so, as the song goes, “See You in September,” when we can say “Go Pack!” ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.